


House Rules

by Carbon65



Series: B's get degrees [3]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crushes, F/M, Rule 63, Shovel talks, drink responsibly kiddos, science journalist kath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 02:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16008692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbon65/pseuds/Carbon65
Summary: It’s three in the goddamn morning, and Spot is up prowling. Again. All over some stupid boy. Kath swears, if she ever meets him, she’s going to punch him in the face.Cross posted from Tumblr





	House Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritingToKeepMySanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingToKeepMySanity/gifts).



> For the prompt, "I’m going to ask you something and you have to answer me honestly.” and/or “I made a bet. I lost. It’s simple as that."
> 
> * * *
> 
> Warnings  
> \--------  
> Alcohol/Drinking Games; College Parties; shovel talks; peer pressure

It’s three in the goddamn morning, and Spot is up prowling. Again. 

The prowling thing is kind of normal for Spot. She has a nasty tendency to prowl all the time, as though it’s a normal way to move through the world. It’s not. Kath knows this. But, Kath was properly socialized as a child. Probably. Although she’s not sure what it says about her that her best friend is a girl who prowls through life.

The real problem is the time. If Spot were a cat burglar, it would be one thing. Spot being a cat burglar would make both their lives so much better. For one thing, they would actually have cups in their room, because Spot could just creep into the dining hall and steal them after hours. Instead, Kath tries to steal them during the day. Last week, Darcy made Kath shame-leave her cup full of apple cinnamon oatmeal and cold coffee last week. (Admittedly, some of Darcy’s argument was that apple cinnamon oatmeal mixed with cold, milky coffee is an abomination that would spill all over her messenger bag and leave her miserable, but it still meant that she didn’t walk out with the cup she wanted.) So, if Spot was a cat burglar, she could go get Kath a fucking cup.  
Oh, and diamonds. Even though part of Katherine’s liberal arts education has included a chemistry class where her professor got up in front of the room and informed them, “Diamonds are not forever, they’re slowly turning into graphite. It’s a conspiracy, ladies. If he really loves you, ask him for a sapphire.” 

And the “he” is what brings her back to Spot, and her current predicament. Because Spot wouldn’t even fucking be awake at three am if it weren’t for some fucking “He”. (And, if Spot wasn’t awake, it would mean that Katherine could go back to her room and her propagation of error analysis for the lab report that’s due in… eight hours, forty seven minutes and twenty or so seconds. Not that anyone is counting.) Katherine has never met the boy who has her roommate all in a tizzy. Spot makes it a general policy not to introduce Katherine to boys until she’s good and ready: she says she has an image and a reputation to maintain, and that Katherine ruins everything about her carefully crafted image. Katherine has no idea what she’s talking about.

All that said, it’s probably a good thing Katherine hasn’t met this particular boy. If she did, she’d probably just punch im in the face. Which… that might actually solve her problem. It would definitely either calm Spot down or whip her up into more a frenzy until she’s frothing at the mouth and passes out from the sheer exhaustion of being a morning person who is also awake at three o’clock in the goddamn morning when her night owl roommate is supposed to be studying. 

Katherine sighs, and pushes back her desk chair. She tweeks the tie on the turban she wears to bed, and stalks out into the living room.

Spot is lying upside on the couch. She’s gone from prowling to wallowing, apparently. She’s wearing a pair of (Katherine’s!) yoga pants, and a sports bra. She’s got her retainer in, her glasses on, and her hair is sticking up in about eighty directions. Tiny as she is, the first word that comes to Katherine’s mind is “adorable”. Which is a dangerous word, when it comes to Spot. Small does not mean sweet or harmless. ...Sort of like mycoplasma.  
Oh God, she needs to sort out Spot so she can sort out calorimetry so she can get some sleep. 

“Spot,” Katherine says, sternly.

Spot ignores her, and continues to stare at the ceiling.

“Seanan,” Katherine repeats, a bit more firmly.

Still no response.

“Seanan Kathleen Conlon,” Katherine barks.

Spot jumps, and looks up at her. “What?” She growls.

Kath shakes her head. “It’s three in the goddamn morning.”

“I know.”

“Then… why are you up?”

“Because I couldn’t sleep.” Spot rights herself. “I… I… I just keep going over it in my head again and again and again. And, I can’t figure it out.”

“Can’t figure what out?” Kath asks, her journalism skills kicking in a notch. 

She’s planning to do Sci com when she graduates, which this semester is unfortunately heavy on the “sci” part and light on the “com”. Interviewing someone is good practice for her future career. More important to her long term job prospects than her ability to do multivariate calculus on an adiabatic system.

“Can’t figure out if he’s flirting with me, or just being an asshole.” Spot bursts into tears.

This is… not entirely unexpected. Spot’s body has a tendency to do things her mind doesn’t always want it to do. Like randomly start crying because it’s overwhelmed. Or underwhelmed. Or just… whelmed. 

“Spot, you’re not going to solve it, now.’ She tries to comfort her crying roommate. Who has a reputation so fierce that she’s legitimately overheard men comment that they’re not afraid of anyone, but Spot Conlon makes them nervous. For good reason, of course, but still.

Kath goes and gathers the shorter girl into her arms, giving up on any semblance of dignity. She feels Spot’s body wrack with tired frustrated sobs, until they finally peter out, and Spot is just dead weight.  
Kath tucks her in, and goes back to her homework.

* * *

They’re in the dining hall on Saturday… well, it’s not really morning. It’s 12:27 pm, which is fine, because Katherine got eight hours of sleep last night, thank you very much. Spot may have watched a movie and then fallen asleep at 8:30 last night, thanks to her earlier crying jag, but Katherine had gone out and played Mafia with Bill. Because mafia is cool. Or something.

Spot had been better last night, she’d thought. Gone were the wild eyed looks of panic, the quiet pacing back and forth, the muttering. Trashy TV and junk food had relaxed her to a degree that Spot was almost starting to wind down.

...And then, some asshole showed up at bunch. Actually, it’s a whole group of assholes. A chaos of assholes. They talked about collective nouns in one of Kath’s communication classes the other week, and she really likes the idea. The chaos of assholes keep glancing over at Kath and Spot nervously, as though they’re sure someone or something is going to eat them.

Katherine decides to ignore them, returning her attention to Spot, her tablet, and her cup of puppy chow. Bless the dining hall for having rice chex, gluten free peanut butter, chocolate chips, and powdered sugar for all a college student’s weird dietary needs.

Spot glances up and over at the chaos in the corner, and then glances quickly back down at her plate. Her cheeks start to flush. Because somehow, the girl with the most terrifying reputation that Katherine knows of manages to blush when she’s nervous, or embarrassed, or flustered. And, Spot blushes a lot. It’s not just because she’s her best friend that Katherine says it. Objectively, Spot blushes a lot. And very prettily.

Kath’s still not sure how Spot got such a terrifying reputation. Spots not in a position where she can do anything sinister to anyone. She’s a DACA recipient, her voice still colored with the faintest hint of her mother’s Irish accent. The thing with those guys from her high school was a misunderstanding. And that thing during their freshman year. And, the summer after had really just been rumors: Katherine had been there, the only bloodshed had been her leaking tampon. So, really, there’s no reason for the chaos of assholes to keep glancing over, pointing, and whispering to each other. It’s damn distracting. Katherine has half a mind to go over there and yell at them.

“Oh God, oh god, oh god,” Spot mutters, her cheeks getting darker and darker pink. “Oh my God, Kath. What the fuck?”

Katherine doesn’t know what the fuck.

“Has the asshole been flirting with me?” Spot demands.

“...The asshole.” Kath still isn’t sure which boy has Spot in such a tizzy. Only that there is one. And it’s bad.

“That asshole,” Spot repeats, deflating a little bit. Her voice goes dreamy. “The asshole.”

Kath resolves to punch the asshole next time she sees him. Unfortunately, she’s just sure which member of the chaos of assholes he is.

* * *

For the record, King’s cup is a dangerous game. 

Spot knows this, and she plays with water. Sparkling water, because Spot Conlon is a gremlin, but water nevertheless. Spot doesn’t do alcohol. Kath knows this, and she plays with cider. She’s on her second of the night, she’s been alternating with water, and she thinks she’s doing okay. David, her new friend is the same, playing with beer. Charlie, her other new friend, probably knows this, too. Except he’s playing with vodka. Probably.

The four of them crowd around the cards and the central table, and go through the rules. And the house variants. 

It’s going to get messy quickly, Kath can tell. Particularly as another somewhat drunk boy body checks his way into the game. “Hey, Ace!” The new guy points. “That rhymes with Race.” He takes a gulp of his drink. Come and… something.

Kath is glad she hasn’t shared her nickname with anyone. Spot just smiles at her, evilly.

They go around, some people getting more drunk than others. Spot and Charlie sit close, mostly ignoring each other. Instead, it’s Race and his friend Albert who drive the game, engaging everyone.

Half way through, and they have to break for more drinks. Charlie reaches beside him and picks up a cane covered in smiley faces. He picks up his cup, and then reaches out for Spots. “Let me buy you a drink,” he says.

She scowls. “I brought my own damn drinks.”

“Let me get your drink, then,” he offers gallantly.

Spot raises an eyebrow, doesn’t say anything, just waits. Katherine waits, too.  
Boys forget the rules. Boys don’t bother learning the rules. Girls do, though. They’re drummed into them from the time they’re able to walk. Drummed in and reinforced with cautionary tales about blame and shattered innocence. 

“...You could come with me,” he finally offers.

Spot nods, grudgingly, and goes with him into the kitchen.

Race studies his empty cup, then hers. “Need anything, princess?”

“Can you bring me a cider, please? And a bottle opener?”

Race, luckily, isn’t as oblivious as Charlie.

When Spot and Charlie get back, there’s color in Spots cheeks. Kath tries to catch her eye, but Spot avoids her glance.

It doesn’t take any investigative skills to make an educated guess.

* * *

Katherine (who is definitely not tipsy) triumphantly draws a Queen.

“Spot!” She turns to her roommate. “Stop!”

Spot winces. 

Maybe she’s a little loud? She quiets herself, almost whispering.

“Spot, I get to ask a question!” She waves the cars triumphantly.

It takes a moment, but Kath gets serious. **“I’m gonna ask something, and you all, you gotta answer honestly, kay?** You can’t lie. You gotta tell me, you gotta.”

She looks around the diminished circle. And then, with great and weight and importance, she asks her question. “Is he The Him?”

Spot glares at her, and picks up Kath’s cup. She sniffs the contents and then disappears into the kitchen. The rest of the players look at each other in stunned silence. 

Spot return, the earth trembling under her feet, and smacks a new cup, a green cup, in front of Katherine. The sound echoes with tension.

Spot pauses, because she’s a dramatic bitch, and then speaks to the waiting universe. Well, really to Kath and the waiting universe. Everyone else is just eavesdropping. “Kitty, I’m going to tell you this once, and only once. As an apology to you, your future self, me, and all the other people at this party, you are going to drink this.” 

Katherine obediently picks up her new green cup and takes a sip. Cold water. She turns back to the table. “Is he the him?” She repeats.

“Is that even grammatically correct?” The boy next to her, Al she thinks, asks.

“How do you understand a sentence made entirely of pronouns?” Crutchie responds.

“YES.” Spot fumes. “Is that what you wanted to me say? YES.”

 

They’re nearing the end of the game, which is a miracle in and of itself. Katherine isn’t sure she’s ever finished a game of King’s cup before, and this has been a long one. The kings have been hiding themselves, and they’ve pulled at least 48 cards in pursuit of the last one.

It’s Charlie’s turn, and his fingers dance across the cards, until he quietly flips one over. Race - who had magically disappeared half way through the game and came back smelling like cigarettes and vomit - leans in. 

“Oh ho ho,” He calls loudly. “You gotta drink, Crutch!”

Charlie looks into the cup, his eyes wide. 

Katherine has been watching what goes in. There’s some of her cider, of course, and David’s beer. (She’s glad she didn’t pull the King, she’s stupid enough that even though there’s beer she’ll drink it anyway and let her intestines go slip’n’slide. Drunk Kath is very bad at good decision making when it comes to avoiding foods that her body hates.) Then, there’s Race’s coke and Jack, Albert’s gin and tonic, Finch’s fireball, and… she’s lost track of all the players and their various drinks. The point is that the cup is a cesspool of alcohol and mixers designed to give you a hangover from hell: a violation of the “beer and liquor, never sicker” rule.

Charlie again looks from Race, to the cup, and back. He shakes his head. “I can’t,” he mutters. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”  
“You gotta,” Race insists. “You gotta, those are the rules. Unless…”

“House rules,” Charlie invokes, quickly. “I call house rules, Race. I call Jackie’s house rule.”

Katherine doesn’t know what that means, but Race does. He leans in and whispers something in Charlie’s left ear.

Charlie frowns, and then nods. 

He turns to Spot, fingers fumbling with the playing card he’d picked up. “Do, uh, do you mind if I kiss you?”

“What?” Spot asks, warily. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

“No.” Crutchie shakes his head, eyes wide. He reaches for the arm of the couch, and pushes himself to stand. He balances there, and puts a hand out ot Spot. “It’s not a fucking joke. It’s… it’s… its this is stupid and I like you, Spot.”

“You like her?” Kath demands. “‘You like her.’ You sound like a fifth grader confessing his first crush.”

“Not far off,” someone mutters. “Crutchie is like, what… ten mentally?”

“Hey!” Charlie shoots back, breaking the spell. “Im twelve, at least.”

“Eleven,” Spot says, leaning in. “Eleven.”

Spot and Crutchie don’t say much after that. They end up on the couch. Not saying much. Their lips are busy doing other things.

Race looks at them, and then over at Katherine. He shrugs, and picks up the king’s cup. He takes a long drink.

Katherine watches him, incredulously.

**“I made a bet. I lost. It’s simple as that.”**

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a couple recent tumblr posts I need to track down. These included WordshakerOfGallifrey's description of Female!Spot in the Tulsa production, and the post about Kath thinking Spot must be harmless because he's a dork in Brooklyn. So, umm... here you go.


End file.
